


you've got a fire inside but your heart's so cold

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Consent Play, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 09:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6112085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You can ask me for anything,” Harold says, easily, and John can't stand it: he walks over and goes to his knees in front of Harold's chair, head bowed, one hand grasping at Harold's thigh, the fine wool of his suit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you've got a fire inside but your heart's so cold

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “Haunting” by Halsey. Thanks to Sky for beta, and to Dana for amazing cheerleading. <3
> 
> Trigger warning note:  
> The consent play takes place in an established relationship between Harold and John and is negotiated beforehand. The Implied / References Dubious Consent tag refers to past John/Kara situations which contain some consent issues.

They are barely through the door before John pulls Harold down onto the bed, tugging and tearing at his suit. Harold falls on top of him with a comical _Ooof_ -sound, and John runs his fingers over his neck in apology. "Sorry, did I hurt you?"

"No," Harold says, biting at John's throat. John's hips thrust up against Harold's weight, and John rubs himself against him shamelessly, his zipper digging painfully into his crotch. "You look like you're _starving._ "

John unbuttons Harold's waistcoat, then the row of smaller buttons below on the shirt. It's been _ages_ , weeks of stoically maintaining their covers and meeting only to discuss the numbers, a quick handjob in Harold's office, that one night of John fucking himself with a vibrator to the sound of Harold's voice in his ear. "You could say that," John says, greedily running his hands over naked skin. "Take your pants off."

Harold chuckles mildly and makes a move to sit up, which wasn't the deal at all: John grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him down to kiss him, lick into his mouth. Harold hums and kisses him back, sliding his thigh between John's legs, giving him something to push up against. John could come like this, almost fully clothed, kissing Harold and rubbing off against his leg. Harold seems to have other ideas, though.

"What would you like?" Harold asks, licking at John's jaw, the shell of his ear, driving him insane.

The idea comes to John completely out of the blue, like a flash of lightning: a visual of Harold holding him down, hands gripping John's wrists, pinning him to the bed.

"John?" Harold prompts, breath ghosting over the skin behind John's ear.

There's a little movie running in John's head now: Harold taking him roughly, mercilessly, the bed creaking beneath them, John's voice, thin and wailing: "Please, I can't, Harold, please, it's too much."

John closes his eyes. God, no, he can't ask Harold for that.

Harold looks at him like John is something interesting, like a firewall he needs to crack. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, just. Thought of something, but I don't think you'd like it a whole lot."

"John," Harold says, his voice unbearably soft. "I can't think of anything you might ask from me that I wouldn't give you. Gladly."

John swallows. He could think of a _bunch of things_ , in fact, most of them to do with violence, physically hurting John, making him beg for mercy.

"It's okay," John says. "It's really not important." Then he slides down Harold's body and proceeds to suck his cock until Harold is grasping at his shoulders, the sharp points of his fingernails biting into his skin.

\--

Harold is the one to bring it up, which doesn't surprise John: Harold has always been braver than him.

"About the other day," he says, and John knows that he's _doomed_.

\--

Harold listens intently, not interrupting John once. When John finishes, flushed and squirming, Harold nods once, in confirmation.

"So you would like me to fuck you while you pretend that you don't want me to," he says.

John feels vaguely sick for a moment, but Harold doesn't sound judgmental, or disappointed. He just sounds like he wants to make sure that he got the right idea.

"Yeah," John says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't even know why I brought it up, I can't imagine that you'd want -"

"What I want, John, is not the subject of discussion at the moment," Harold says firmly. "Why don't you tell me what it is that _you_ want, and let me make a choice whether I am inclined to give it to you or not?"

John can't really argue with that. “Okay,” he says, attempting a smile that feels weird on his mouth, sliding off the corners. “I want you to have me, I want you to be... not careful,” he adds, grimacing. He doesn't want to explain it, he just wants to transfer the knowledge of what to do directly into Harold's brain, take his clothes off and lie down and let Harold take care of him.

“You want me to be rough with you?” Harold asks, his voice businesslike, completely even.

Harold has his hands clasped on the table and John wants to reach out and touch him, to kiss his knuckles. How he can even bear to talk about this is beyond John. It's not that John wouldn't do anything for Harold if he should ever ask, but that's not the same thing: John doubts that Harold gets off on someone holding him down and making him take it.

“Yes,” John says. “I want you to hold me down. Force me,” he manages, before his nerves get the better of him: he has withstood brutal interrogation without flinching, but this is – telling Harold these things is –

John is up on his feet in an instant, pacing the room. “God, Harold, I shouldn't – I can't ask you to do this.”

He can't see Harold's face, but he can imagine the disgust written on it: Harold gives him everything, trust and love and affection, a home, a _reason to live._ Harold's hands have washed blood off John's, and all that John can think of is asking for something like _this_.

 

“ _John_ ,” Harold says, and John turns around immediately, like there's an invisible string attached to his back, drawing him closer to Harold.

Harold doesn't look disgusted. There is a line on his forehead that indicates worry, but his posture is relaxed.

“You can ask me for anything,” Harold says, easily, and John can't stand it: he walks over and goes to his knees in front of Harold's chair, head bowed, one hand grasping at Harold's thigh, the fine wool of his suit.

Harold's hand slides into John's hair and John sighs and rests his head in Harold's lap while Harold pets him, slowly, luxuriously.

“Kara told me to pretend that I didn't want it,” John says. It feels like there is a crack somewhere inside of him, a fine hairline fracture, and now the truth is spilling out like water. “She liked... the idea of corrupting me, I think. I didn't expect to – She told me to struggle, a little, and it wasn't like I thought it would be.”

Harold's hand stills. John raises his head to look at Harold's face, his hand falling away from John's head.

“Did you want it?” Harold asks. His voice gives nothing away, but John hears the question loud and clear.

“It was part of the job,” John says: it might not be the whole truth, but it's close enough. It's what he kept telling himself, anyway.

Harold presses his lips together. “That is not an answer to my question,” he says.

John wants Harold to touch him again. He wants to go to the bedroom and feel Harold's weight on him, Harold's lips pressing against John's back. “Sometimes,” John says.

Harold is good at managing his reactions, but something runs through him at that, a sharp jolt like electricity. “That implies,” Harold says, his fingertips ghosting over the edge of John's collar, “that sometimes you didn't want it.”

“Yes,” John says, swallowing. “But this is not – it isn't about _that._ ”

Harold looks pale by now, troubled. John regrets opening this line of conversation more than ever. “I would rather not have anything more in common with Miss Stanton than absolutely necessary,” Harold says.

John frowns. “You're nothing like Kara,” he says, because even the idea is absurd.

Harold's hand rests on John's shoulder. “I want to give you what you need,” Harold says, his breathing deliberate, like he has to remind himself of its rhythm. “But I'm not sure I can – John, what you're telling me here is – You should mind it. It was wrong of her to abuse your trust like that and you should mind it.”

John wants to smile at that, Harold's outrage on his behalf, but he suppresses the impulse: it would just freak Harold out more. The truth is that John doesn't mind being used: Kara wanted something from him, and some part of him was glad to be _useful_ , in whatever way that was.

“You already give me everything that I need,” John says. He brushes his lips over the back of Harold's hand. Harold smiles, quickly, like the flash of a camera. His hand cups John's jaw, fingers splayed over his cheek.

“Tell me what you thought about, the last time we were together,” Harold says softly.

John leans into the touch. He closes his eyes. “I imagined that you'd fuck me, hold me down. I was. I was telling you that I couldn't – that it was too much.” John swallows. “You kept going anyway, _making me._ You asked me if I liked it, if it was what I wanted.” John doesn't open his eyes.

“What else?” Harold's voice asks from somewhere in the darkness. “What else would you like?” He has started petting John's head again, fingernails scratching lightly at John's neck. John sighs when Harold finds a good spot, rubs his cheek over Harold's thigh.

“I'd like you to tell me that there's no point in struggling,” John says. It's easier like this, when he doesn't have to see Harold's expression. “That there's nowhere to go, that I'll do whatever you want from me anyway.”

Harold hums a little. He slides his hand down to John's neck and slips under the collar, massages the tension out of the muscles there. John goes limp against him, sprawled over his lap, his back arched.

“I want you to tell me that I'm yours,” John mumbles, not even thinking about what he's saying anymore. “Bite me, mark me, I want. Bruises on my wrists.”

Harold inhales sharply.

“You want me to make it clear that you're mine,” Harold says.

John shudders against him.”I want to know that there's no way out,” John says. “That all I can do is surrender.”

John waits for Harold to point out that this part is fiction, that John could easily fight his way out of any physical hold Harold has on him, any kind of restraints. Harold stays quiet, his thumb digging into the painful knots of John's shoulder. Maybe he understands that there isn't any pretense on John's part involved at all: he will do whatever Harold asks of him, for better or worse.

John licks his lips. “I want you to tell me that I can't come before you do, maybe not at all.”

“Why?” Harold asks. He sounds curious. He strokes the skin behind John's ear and John makes a pleased noise.

“Because I only get off if you allow it,” John explains. “Everything happens because you want it to happen, if you think. If you think that I deserve it.”

Harold squirms a little in his chair, and John wonders if he is suppressing his knee-jerk reaction to tell John that he deserves everything, like he did those first times they were together: Harold clutching at John's shoulders, fucking into him, saying _You're so good, John, you're always so good for me, let me take care of you, you deserve to be taken care of._

“Do you want me to let you come?” Harold asks. His voice sounds steady, but his breathing seems more measured than before, carefully controlled.

John bites his lip. “Only if I beg you, first,” he says. “If I beg a lot.”

Harold's thigh tenses underneath him, he squirms in his chair. “Alright,” he says, his voice rough.

John opens his eyes. The room is too bright, and his eyes needs a moment to adjust to the light. Harold's cheeks are pink, and there is an unmistakable bulge in his pants. John chuckles, hiding his face against the thick wool of Harold's pants.

“What's so amusing?” Harold asks. His hand is wandering down John's spine now, touching him through the fabric of his shirt.

“I was afraid you wouldn't see the appeal at all,” John says, his voice low, husky.

“Maybe I just appreciate the sight of you on your knees,” Harold says. His hand has made its way down to the small of John's back now, circling over the knots of the vertebrae.

“Mmh, so nothing I told you would be appealing to you at all?” John asks.

He sits up and gives Harold a playful smile. Then he pushes Harold's legs apart and settles between them, nosing at his crotch through the fabric. Harold sighs and sinks back a little in his chair, relaxing.

“You will have to be more specific, Mr. Reese,” he says.

John noses and licks at Harold's crotch, getting the fabric wet, and then Harold's hand is in his hair again, encouraging.

“Holding me down, biting me,” John says. He tries to get a hold of the zipper with his teeth: he could just use his hands, but doing it with just his mouth looks more impressive.

“No,” Harold says, a little strained. “Not affected at all.”

John moves his head back to look at Harold. “Maybe I just haven't found the right thing, yet. Maybe you'd like to.... pull my hair? Fuck my mouth?”

“I really appreciate your openness, but I think that's quite enough talking for today,” Harold says, a little strained, and John can take a hint.

–

On Saturday morning, Harold makes breakfast: French toast, scrambled eggs and orange juice, coffee for John and tea for himself. “I was thinking that we might give it a try today,” Harold says casually, stirring sugar into his cup.

John nearly chokes on a forkful of eggs and quickly washes it down with coffee. He doesn't have to ask what Harold means. “I'd like that,” John says, his stomach twisting in anticipation. He suddenly isn't that hungry anymore.

Harold looks at him across the breakfast table. “I need to insist on the ground rules we've discussed, though. Will that be a problem?”

John gives him a lazy smile. “I'm good at following rules,” he says.

Harold raises an eyebrow at him. "If you want me to stop –" He starts.

"I won't want you to stop,” John says, because it's true. Even if Harold should do something that John doesn't like – which, frankly, John doubts, given how carefully Harold is approaching the subject -, even if it should _hurt_ , John would want that from him, too. John wants everything.

"... If you want me to stop at any time,” Harold goes on, as if he hasn't heard what John was saying, “That is what your safeword is for." He dabs at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “If not out of some sense of self-preservation, then maybe you can consider it a favor to me to tell me when something I do crosses the line from enjoyable to unpleasant.”

John opens his mouth, about to say that “unpleasant” is certainly going to be part of _being held down and forced,_ is somewhat the point, actually, but Harold holds up his hand, already anticipating the reply. “If I'm going to ignore what you say during that period of time – if I'm supposed to ignore you telling me to _stop_ \- I need to know that there is a way for you to actually stop the proceedings if you should want to.”

That's not unreasonable, John thinks, and nods. It doesn't change that he knows, for a fact, that he won't safeword out, that he'll simply lie down and take whatever Harold doles out.

–

They clear up the table and wash the dishes. It's a cool winter day outside, bright and crisp, the sun streaming in through the windows. In John's fantasies, it had been evening, the lights dimmed and the streets outside quiet, but this is just as well. Harold stands next to him and dries the dripping plates John hands him, deep in thought. John leans in and brushes a kiss against his temple.

–

Harold closes the bedroom door behind them and John feels a bright, nauseating rush of adrenaline surging through him. Harold steps close, puts his hands on John's chest and kisses him. He doesn't seem nervous, but there is a slight tension in the set of his shoulders, the determined line of his mouth.

"Tell me that you love me," John says.

Harold slides his thumb over John's lower lip. "I love you."

"Good," John says, mouthing at Harold's hand. It feels like John's heart is beating right there in his throat, thick and hot. "Now fuck me like you don't."

–

The change in Harold is palpable, like he's sliding out of a jacket, removing the fabric of kindness.

“Down on your knees,” he says. It doesn't even sound like an order, more like a comment, some kind of general observation.

For a moment, John is stunned. He doesn't even think about disobeying, he has barely realized what Harold wants from him when Harold reaches up to John's neck, grabs a fistful of John's hair and twists. The pain flashes hot and sharp through John's scalp, and his knees give in on instinct. Harold still has a firm hold on John's hair, and the change of position sends a jolt of fresh pain through him.

“I hate to repeat myself,” Harold says, sounding bored.

John looks up at him in quiet disbelief: he has seen Harold slip into roles effortlessly, but most of them didn't make John this hard, his cock straining against the zipper of his pants.

Harold lets go of John's hair. He places a hand under John's chin, tilting John's head up. “Would you like me to fuck you, _John_?” He asks.

John averts his eyes. The obvious answer is _yes, please, now_ , but that isn't what this is about. “No,” John manages, “Please.” He can barely get enough air in his lungs, his knees are throbbing where they hit the floor.

Harold bends down so that he can whisper into John's ear. “Well, how convenient that I don't care about what it is that you want at all,” he says, making John shiver. “Undress and lie down on the bed.”

–

John doesn't know if he spends minutes or hours spread out on the bed, hands fisted in the bunched-up fabric. His stomach feels slick against the sheets, but he is sure that he didn't come, not with the way his arousal is still fresh and sharp, like an open wound. John is panting, sweat stinging his eyes. Harold had started with a polished wooden paddle, smacking him across the buttocks in a rhythmic pattern, _one two three four five_ , and each slap left John's skin burning delightfully. It wasn't painful for him by any stretch of the imagination, but something about the way Harold did it, so matter of factly, like a chore, made tears sting in John's eyes.

“Do you enjoy this, John? Getting punished?” Harold asked absently.

“No,” John said, shaking, “no, _please_.” It wasn't true, of course: there was a part of John that wished Harold would put away the paddle and do it with something that _really hurt._

“Please, enough,” John made himself gasp, and Harold had stopped for a short, nauseating moment, before continuing the spanking, harder than before.

John was so hard he could barely stand it, but every thrust of his hips against the sheets was met with Harold's voice in his ear, a low growl, “ _Don't.”_

Harold bit John's shoulders, after, marking him, sucking bruises into the skin of his throat.

By now, Harold has put away the paddle and started fingering John: or rather, his fingertip is circling the ring of John's hole with barely any pressure and John is going insane trying not to push back.

“Harold,” John manages, when he doesn't think he can hold out much longer. Harold has worked up to one finger, opening him up, and John feels like every whisper of fabric could make him shudder and come.

“I am going to explain to you what will happen next,” Harold says, over the sound of a zipper being opened. John pants against the sheets, open-mouthed, the air burning in his lungs. “I am going to have you, and you're not going to come.”

John whines, squeezing his eyes shut. “Harold,” he says, his tongue dry, scraping against the roof of his mouth.

Harold's nails press down against his neck, pinpoint sharp and real, but John can't make himself stop begging: _“Please”_ and _“I need”_ and “ _Too much_ ”.

Harold fucks him like he has all the time in the world, and John's thighs are shaking, stars exploding behind his eyelids in yellow and green sparks. John only realizes that Harold is coming by the way his hands tighten on John's hips, a sharp exhale that's not quite a moan. He pulls out, leaving John empty and open, and John rests his head against his arms, tremors running through his body.

Then Harold is next to him, leaning against the headboard, pulling John's head into his lap.

“Please,” John says, his cheeks wet. He doesn't even know what he's asking for: pain or pleasure or kindness or cruelty.

Harold pets his hair, runs his thumb over John's cheek. “Ssh, I know,” he says, and then his hand closes around John's cock, warm and familiar.

John moans until his throat feels rough with it, pushing into Harold's grip, hands gripping Harold's suit: he's still completely dressed with the exception of his pants being undone and his tie loosened a little.

It barely takes a few thrusts until John shakes apart: coming feels like a punch to the gut, bright hot and perfect. It feels like it goes on forever, Harold's hands grounding him, his body solid and real beneath him.

When John comes back to himself, he realizes that he's _sobbing_ , his head still resting in Harold's lap and Harold softly petting his hair. Harold is talking, John realizes: telling him how well he's done, how proud he is of John.

John kisses Harold's knuckles, his wrists, unable to find the words. Something has unfolded in his chest, like a sharp, hard pebble that had been rattling around inside of his rib cage. He closes his eyes and lets more tears come, hot and wet on his cheeks, and Harold holds him close, says “I know, John, I know” until John is drifting off to sleep.

–

When John wakes up, the street outside is dark. Harold is leaning against the headboard, two large pillows supporting his back. He has his laptop in front of him, but when he realizes that John is awake, he closes the lid with a soft noise. “Did you have a good sleep?”

John sits up. He doesn't feel sore, just pleasantly loose, like after a good workout. _Well._

“Yeah, I'm good,” he says. He's naked, but wrapped up so snugly in the sheets that he feels warm all over. Harold must have cleaned him up at some point, but John was too out of it to notice.

“How do you feel?” Harold asks.

John leans his head against Harold's shoulder. He understands now why Harold wanted to do this early in the day: to give John time to recover after.

Harold takes John's silence as its own kind of answer: he reaches out to run his hand over John's collarbones, the side of his neck where some bruises are blooming, the skin tender under Harold's touch. “Maybe if we did a post-mortem on today's activities, I could improve,” he says.

John blinks, a little hazy. “Improve?” He asks, chuckling.

“I'm serious, John, if this hasn't been... what you needed it to be, I will gladly --”

John doesn't mean to interrupt him, but now he _has_ to kiss Harold: the idea that Harold would think that he hasn't done everything perfectly is just too absurd.

When John lets him come up for air, Harold searches his face, his fingertips absently tracing a bite mark on John's jaw.

“I really enjoyed myself,” John says. His throat feels scratchy, too tight. “It was – you were –“

Harold's look melts into fondness. “Well, you gave me some reason to think that I had done a good job,” he says.

John nuzzles his throat, breathes in the smell of him. “Thank you,” he says. His voice sounds a little shaky, but that's okay: Harold has a habit of hearing everything that John says, and most things that he doesn't.

“I'm glad,” Harold says, drawing the sheets back so John can slide in next to him, wrapped up in a warm cocoon. “I have to say, the experience wasn't purely a chore.”

“Mmh. You enjoyed it,” John says, snuggling closer. He is half hard, and while getting fucked again might be nice soon, for now he is content to just lie there and taste Harold's skin.

“I liked how affected you were,” Harold says thoughtfully. “I have never seen you like this, so. Raw. Raw and open.”

John's hips move lazily, his eyelids falling shut. One of Harold's hands is caressing his back, the other one carding through his hair. John sighs. Scratch that: getting fucked sounds like a great idea just about now.

Harold leans down to whisper into John's ear. “What would you like?”

John smirks. He can think of a few things, actually.

\-- fin

 


End file.
